Something Nice To Say
by starrysummernights
Summary: "You're just doing this to make me to say something nice." John accused. Yes, Sherlock was. Of course he was. John always said the nicest things when their lives were in danger. Eventual Johnlock.


**I got the idea for this story from the first episode of Series 3. I won't go into detail in case there are those who haven't yet seen it, but that is where I got my inspiration.**

**This story will be pre-series 3. If and when we get to that point, the story will become an AU. I must write Johnlock. :)**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

"We're going to die…aren't we?"

In the thirty-six years of his life, there have been a handful of occasions in which John's questioned his own mortality.

"….yes, John."

When he was seven and got a failing grade on a Very Important maths test. The whole walk home, the test paper a heavy weight in his rucksack, John had been convinced his mum and dad would kill him. His friends at school, good lads, had held a mock funeral for him on the playground that afternoon and it'd been nice. A few of the girls who'd come had cried. One had even sweetly kissed John's cheek.

His little heart had been beating frantically when John, mouth dry, stomach twisted in knots, had presented his test paper with the glaring red "F" emblazoned at the top to his parents, ready to die.

Of course he hadn't. But he'd been convinced he was going to- and _that_ was the significant point. Almost three decades later, John could still remember his terror.

There'd been a few other times, a few other close calls which served to highlight the impermanence of life. Once at uni, John had been in a car wreck in which the other driver had been drunk. John had seen the oncoming headlights, barreling towards him on _his_ side of the road, and his stomach had jolted sickeningly. He could already hear the popping break of glass, the screech of metal on metal, and feel the jarring impact of their cars colliding.

_Oh, god,_ he'd thought,_ please…please no…_

John had walked away from the wreck that night with a broken arm and a new respect for life. A respect he'd shown by shipping out to Afghanistan years later.

And during his time in that war-torn country…well. There had been ample proof of the transiency nature of life. The death rate was high and danger lurked everywhere. Even the most vigilant soldiers were at risk of snipers, land mines, and friendly fire. Shit happened. John, as an army doctor, had seen it all, treated it all, and learned: life was precious and incredibly fragile.

His_ own life_ was fragile.

_Please, God, let me live._

John stared across the dark room he was imprisoned in, and once again- for what seemed like the final time- contemplated his own mortality.

He and Sherlock were on a case. Of course they were. Since moving into 221B two months ago, he and Sherlock were _always_ on a case, except for the times when they weren't and Sherlock swanned about the flat, intolerably bored. John had already started dreading those times of malaise more than anything else.

This particular case had started out easy. Too easy. Sherlock had labeled it a three _at most_ and almost turned it down when Lestrade offered it. But he'd been bored for days and John had encouraged him to take it. To just try it out.

John wished he'd kept his mouth shut and let Sherlock turn the case down. Because after four days of ceaseless investigation, of being roughed up by a gang with a lot to hide, of doing so much running John's calves were still sore, they'd fallen right into the well-laid trap of the suspect. Been abducted. Beaten up for information. Then dumped here in an abandoned warehouse, snow falling gently down onto them through gaping holes in the roof. They were tied together, sat back to back, shivering in the cold, smarting from their wounds. Waiting for their abductor to come back, gloat over his victory, and kill them.

They had no mobile. Were miles away from anyone who would hear them if they screamed. And Sherlock hadn't told Lestrade what they were doing, where they were going. No one knew they were here.

It seemed a bleak situation.

"We're going to die…aren't we?" John's voice was hollow, loud in the darkened, hushed room. He heard Sherlock shift behind him, trying to get them free, before going still. Silent.

The seconds stretched out. John could hear his heart beating in his ears.

"…yes, John."

John closed his eyes and bowed his head. So this…this was how it was going to end. Not by a bullet in Afghanistan, not a murderous cabbie. Tied together, shivering, shot to death by a crooked businessman who made his fortune importing illegally made dolls.

The indignity of it was abysmal.

"Thank you."

Sherlock's words ghosted into John's ears, so quietly spoken he almost thought he'd imagined them.

John turned his head as far as he could, but still couldn't see Sherlock. If he rolled his eyes to the _very_ corners he could just see a few wild brown curls in his peripheral vision. "What'd you say?"

Sherlock shifted against John's back. "I said…thank you."

John frowned, even though Sherlock couldn't see. "For what?"

Silence. Sherlock obviously didn't want to explain himself. John waited but so much time passed that he finally gave up hearing an explanation.

Sherlock shifted again, a warm presence against John's back. "For being my friend."

"Oh…." That was… Well. What did one say to that? Was John even supposed to respond? Say "you're welcome?" Sounded pretentious to say that, though.

Should he say something? He really didn't want to. There were some things blokes didn't say to each other. Even if they were dying. And John had never been one to spill his heart out in sentimental rhapsodies anyway.

He decided to keep quiet.

Seemed churlish, though. Ungrateful. And they _were_ going to die. Sherlock had said they were and, even though John had only known this strange genius a few months, he already trusted him and his judgment. If Sherlock said a thing was so….then it was.

They were really going to die

And was John really not going to tell Sherlock what he'd meant to him….how much he valued the little time they'd spent together…? Their friendship? It seemed the least he could do. They were just words. Shouldn't be as daunting as it was.

"You were…um…my best…best friend." John tried awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably, his face hot, blushing to the tips of his ears, grateful they were back to back and that Sherlock couldn't see.

Behind him, Sherlock was silent. If he'd said anything in that moment, even moved the wrong way, John couldn't have continued. But he didn't…so John, steeling himself, blundered on.

"I didn't…I didn't have anyone and you…you made me feel…less…less alone. Never alone. Never bored. And even…" John cleared his throat, ashamed he was getting choked up but he'd be damned if he'd do this crying like a girl. He may be dying but he wasn't dead _yet_, dammit.

"And even…even though it's all led to, well, _this_…I…I don't regret it. Not in the slightest." He stuck his chin out defiantly. "I'm glad to have met you, Sherlock."

He fumbled behind him where their hands were tied and managed to snag one of Sherlock's fingers and give it a _very_ brief, very _manly_ squeeze.

"So…so there."

* * *

To John's complete and utter chagrin, they were rescued ten minutes later.

He made Sherlock promise to never, _ever_ mention what he'd said to him. Ever. To anyone. Or John would kill Sherlock himself.

Sherlock, smiling, agreed.


End file.
